


French Tea

by callmecloudybutdontreally



Series: CountryHumans [1]
Category: CountryHumans
Genre: F/F, F/M, Here we go, Immortals, Immortals at war, M/M, Personified Cities, Personified countries, Slow Burn, i cant believe i wrote this, its weird ok, no beta we die like men, send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecloudybutdontreally/pseuds/callmecloudybutdontreally
Summary: “What are you thinking about, Brit?” France asked him. She was at his side, a hand on his shoulder, seeming to steady him. His hand was shaking, for some reason. It wasn’t that bad of a memory, so it shouldn’t have made him shake.“My life.” Our children, you.“Our lives,” She corrected, and he smiled into his tea.AKA:France comes to visit Britain, and the uncomfortable conversation about their children comes up. Set in 1761.
Series: CountryHumans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599724
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	French Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This story actually came when I was looking for a way to write fluff, with that sense of something terrible happened. A few days previous, though, I'd been exploring the differences and similarities between popular anime Hetalia and... uhh....
> 
> Countryhumans.
> 
> Countryhumans is like countryballs, except, as the name states, they aren't just balls. They're humanoid countries, colored as their flag accordingly. It's more used as shipping and animation material than actual stories or history, unlike Hetalia. Hetalia is more of history on crack, while Countryhumans is sort of less history more material. It depends on how you look.
> 
> So, what did I do? I kinda crossed the two. England goes by Britain to the other countries, but his human name is James; as such with the other countries. It follows a similar premise: if a country's people dissipate, or completely lose loyalty to their country, the country becomes mortal and dies quickly. But, so long as the people and the land are still there, so is the country. Invasions don't kill them, but can affect them greatly, the like. They have two main forms, the only thing changing is usually their hair or skin. Their skin color may change at certain times, turning into their country's flag, but usually they're good at hiding it.
> 
> usually.
> 
> idk wtf this chaos is tbh :/
> 
> also france and britain used to be romantic but i doNT SHIP IT IT WAS ONLY FOR HISTORICAL ACCURACY TBH LDHXVLJDSLACVHSDJLHVFIH LNVDSOIAHFOISDHFIHSAIOYHFDISA

Britain knew that his fear of King George the Third was completely irrational and uncalled for. He would be just like any king (though the particular hope was that he wouldn’t be like Henry the Eighth, who he still had nightmares about), ruling over the people and careful to ensure that the country had enough money to sustain itself if war broke out; sending explorers to the New World to find the new gems and riches that Spain had been bragging about; advancing as much as possible in the quickest time so that they were the most equipped and advanced country in the world, until even Russia dared not attack them. He would do whatever it took for his people, and if not, himself.

And that was exactly why Britain was terrified.

“Brit, you are being absurd, what with your terror of your newest king.” France said, grasping his hand lightly. He could tell there was affection in her movements, but there was also a promise of pain.  _ For the children,  _ he thought. “Perhaps you should calm down?”

“Perhaps I shall,” he responded. “Be a doll and put a kettle on the fire, Fran? I’ll finish up washing your dress.”

She nodded, turning away and moving to the fire. He owned a relatively small house, just barely room enough for him and the children, and France when she came to visit. Ireland would sleep in the garden, Scotland owned his own castle, and Wales didn’t want much to do with him, preferring to take Ireland and France’s sides in any conflicts, which was exactly what he had been doing ever since Mass had been born.

“George is a lovely dear, as I have heard,” she poured water in the kettle as she spoke, kneeling in front of the fire as she did so. “ _ Je l'aime beaucoup plus que cette femme Elizabeth que tu aimais tant. _ ”

“ _ Je veux juste que nos enfants reviennent _ ,” Britain responded, scowling. “Rhode was barely even of suitable age to marry when she sent him off to run a colony — in the new world, of all things!”

“ _ Idiot _ ,” France snickered. “We’ve had kings and queens marry at half his age.”

He huffed out a laugh at his lover’s response. “Yes, well, did they consummate? If not, the marriage ceremony was not complete.”

“ _ C'étaient des enfants _ !”

“Precisely,” was his response. “If they are that young, then why marry? You cannot celebrate the marriage in the face of God, then you cannot be married until you do. Celebration of eternal love at that young is a stupid decision to make, particulary when you are not sure of it.”

France did not respond to him.

He continued washing the clothing, scrubbing the silky fabric of France’s dress between his fingers. It was of clear royalty, given to her by himself when he still was madly in love with her. Britain had a small wish that she would come with him, live in his country, and become the first married countries in the world, but it was a distant wish. Even if she did love him, King George III would never allow it, she had her own country to lead, and a husband who she kept her secret from.

No, he did not need her, anyways.

Keeping his secret from his country pained him, but it was a necessity. The Republic of Rome had found out that their king  _ was  _ their empire, and the word got out. When it had been taken by force, Rome had been given no choice but to flee to save himself and a few of his men — that didn’t stop his death, however. He couldn’t let that happen to him or his country.

The smell of heated metal came to his attention. Britain stuck the dress back into the water, having managed to get most of it clean. It had been a little dusty, with stains of mud and muck at the bottom from where he assumed the peasantry had thrown things at her.

France was the queen of her own country, but she was quiet about her true identity. It had taken her a little while to come out to Britain, and he had done the same after she had spilled it to her. This was after they found out she was pregnant with York, and she had confessed that she was France, and that she wouldn’t be able to tell her husband that it was him, for they had not consummated in a great deal of time.

_ “The baby’s late, then.” Britain responded to her worry. It was a simple answer, and she should’ve been able to pass it off to her husband with ease. _

_ “I— Brit, je pense pas que vous compreniez comment ils fonctionnent. It doesn’t take them years to grow — It is only roughly 9 moons!” Fran cried, her words slipping between English and French. He understood what she had told him perfectly, and he sighed. _

_ “Hmm. Well, do you have anyone that you can put the blame upon?” If they could find someone, say a lowly servant who she did not like, then the blame could be put upon them for debauching the queen of France, and the country herself. Though, he wouldn’t be so lucky. _

_ “You, you, and, oh, yes, you.” She responded, laying against his shoulder and putting her arm over his other shoulder, massaging the joint. He relaxed ever so slightly, still tense with the terror of their conversation being heard by someone. _

_ “Hah!” He laughed, not truly jolly but more to remove some of the tension. “And how would that story hold, with me being essentially peasantry compared to you?” He was the middle class, by choice, and she was a queen, by choice. He didn’t want to become royalty, simply because he’d have to change his face and behaviour every few decades. Which meant all the time, to him. He supposed he’d mind less if he were a woman, wanting a newer and better looking face after she’d grown bored of the first one, but he was already handsome enough in his own mind. Maybe in the future, he’d change and decide he wanted better than the crowded city. _

_ “I. . . Je sais pas. Just like with what to do with the baby.” France wailed, holding him tightly. He had no idea what to say, because, well, he’d never had the courage to court a woman, let alone another country. She was both, and he had fallen straight into her arms, and he had no clue how to comfort her; his mother had been mortal, borne from the Saxon ruler Egbert and his wife. He could barely remember her comforting him when the first of the wars broke out and he’d felt the burning pain as the berserkers destroyed the towns — hence why he had no clue how to comfort his lover. _

_ So he pulled her close and held onto her until the sobs calmed, until her breaths weren’t hitched as much, until she had fully relaxed into his firm and reassuring hold. All the while, he’d been muttering small promises to her, such as promising that the child would not be discovered, and that if it came to it, Britain would fight to protect them. Even if he had to get pistols and duel, and had to change his face. _

“Your tea is done, Brit,” France said, setting the kettle down on the table. A cloth was wrapped around her hand, likely to prevent the metal from burning her hand. Not that it would hurt her much, but it would be something that she had to pass off as an accident which occurred across the sea, he supposed. Humans felt pain, and the countries felt human pain, but they could not feel their own, as Britain had learned long ago.

“Thank you, Fran,” He responded. “Is your dress to your standards, Your Highness?” He pulled it out of the water carefully. She scanned it, her blue eyes bemused.

“Almost.  _ Vous avez raté une tache, sur l'épaule _ .”

He sighed. “It was a fair attempt,” he said, placing it carefully over the side of the wash bin. She smiled, crossing the room to the bin and sitting down on the stool, beginning to scrub it. “No, no—” he grabbed her hand, removing the dress from her grasp in a single movement “—come have tea with me. You’ve been cleaning for the better part of the early morning.”

“ _ Et propre je continuerai à le faire _ .” She responded. He sighed again, grasping her shoulders for a few moments before letting go.

“Have it your way, Fran.”

_ “It’s just basic prefixes and pronunciations — you taught yourself Latin, did you not?” France questioned, motioning to his small bookshelf, which was full of Latin and Greek books. He didn’t know what the Greek books said, or even what their titles were, but he had a feeling that someday he would learn to speak it, and would read those books as a result. _

_ “With a little help from that Isaac fellow, yes, I taught myself Latin. But does that matter now?” Newton had been a genius, and managed to convince him to grab a pint with him. After explaining his theory of movement and gravity, Britain had been asked to share a portion of what his biggest project at the moment was. He’d slipped up, telling the man something about Anglo-Saxons and the Prodistent Church, and a few days he later Newton came back with more alcohol and asked him how old he was. _

_ He was drunk, and he told the man the rough age of Great Britain and said he was a couple hundred years older than him. He didn’t remember much else, than telling Newton about his shame of being the only non-bilingual country in the world. The other man had told him that he would teach him Latin and keep it a secret, if the country promised to allow his work into papers and his most recent discovery. _

_ “How did you learn it?” She asked, tapping the book in her lap. France had written the words she wanted him to say in English, then she’d put her mother tongue underneath it. Her handwriting was very beautiful, with curves and spacing so perfect it put his calligraphy to shame. _

_ “By being taught the basic prefixes we use currently, and eventually I moved onto forming full sentences. Isaac died before then, but I figured out the rest of it.” By the time of his death, Newton and Britain had been good friends, often going to the pub on the night before weekly mass. _

_ “Think of that, but change the language so that it’s French. That’s all it is.” She said, making it sound just as easy as when his first and only wife had taught him how to write and read. She’d died long before he had even perfected it, but he’d been so proud when he finally wrote her name in cursive — perfect, with a quill — that he’d held it up to the sky at night and spoke about his day until the night was over and the day was young. Perhaps France would be his second, and would be able to stay with him to the end. _

_ “Alright! This’ll be easy!” If it was as simple as she made it sound, he would be trilingual in no time. Though that was no huge feat, it was an incredible thought to him. _

_ “Hah! Tu es un imbécile.” France said, laughing. _

_ “I — Did you just call me stupid?” _

_ She snorted. “Essentially, yes.” _

Britain took a sip of his tea. It was warm, and France seemed to remember what tea was his favorite, even after all the years. She was scrubbing intensely at the dress, scowling as she finally stopped and the dirt was still not removed.  _ Must be more than dirt _ , Britain thought.

_ “Daddy, Daddy, look!” _

_ It was Hampshire, followed closely by York. The two of them were holding hands, because the older of the two couldn’t seem to shake her off. Both had mud on the bottoms of their trousers, and they looked as if they had been playing until just recently. _

_ “Yes, children? Qu'est-ce que c'est?” _

_ York turned and pointed at the road, where the peasantry seemed to be parting frantically to a large, horse pulled carriage. There were knights walking alongside it, hands on their swords’ hilts and whips for the horses. He knew it couldn’t have been France, because he had just waved her goodbye multiple sunsets ago. So it was King Henry. _

_ “It’s the king! J'ai entendu dire qu'il a tué sa femme!” _

_ They were scared. _

_ He picked them up and left the street quickly, hoping he didn’t grab the attention of anyone. He didn’t need his children to get in trouble for being loud or in the king’s way, even though they were immortal. Having a broken neck as an immortal would really put a downer on life. _

_ “Cachez-vous dans les buissons jusqu'à ce que je vienne vous chercher. Le roi est un homme impitoyable.” _

_ The two children nodded, rushing to the wood as soon as they were placed on the ground. Once he was sure that no one would see them, he returned to the street, just in time to bow inconspicuously to the king. The knights didn’t seem to notice him, yet the driver did. _

_ “Mighty fine clothing for a peasant,” He said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “What’s a man in that nice of clothing doing in a district like this?” _

_ Britain didn’t respond. _

“What are you thinking about, Brit?” France asked him. She was at his side, a hand on his shoulder, seeming to steady him. His hand was shaking, for some reason. It wasn’t that bad of a memory, so it shouldn’t have made him shake.

“My life.”  _ Our children, you. _

“ _ Our  _ lives,” She corrected, and he smiled into his tea.

Truely, he did not deserve her. He couldn’t keep his promise to protect his children, couldn’t keep his promise to be there for her forever if needed, couldn’t (and wouldn’t) beg the king for his children, for their return. She kept all her promises that she had made to him — she was always there, she was doing as much as she could for her children, and she was willing to do anything to get them back.

“I’m sorry,” Britain sighed. He seemed to be saying that a lot more than he would like to, especially when she visited.

“For what?”

He turned to France. “Everything.”

She took the seat next to him, a small amount of concern crossing her features. He vaguely noticed that his tea was cold, and he came close to spitting it back out in disgust. “Your face,” she said. “It’s turned back into the Union Jack. Are you well, Britain?”

He hummed in response, leaning against her shoulder. “I shall go to Scotland Tomorrow, and see if he can get King George to speak with me. Then I will discuss matters on our children.”

“Where shall they live, then?” France asked, taking his cup from him. She poured more water in it, before putting the bag in. Two lumps of sugar was next, and she passed it back to him. “This house is not suitable for fifteen people.”

“Fifteen?” Britain questioned. “What do you mean?”

She poured herself some tea. “I have denied those children their right to see their mother on a reliable basis, and as such have deprived them of their household learning. Though, as I am sure you taught them well.”   


“I do hope so,” He responded quietly. France, coming to live with him? That was something he never would’ve seen coming. She was a loyal wife to her mortal husbands while they were alive, but one could only lament upon a person they loved for so long. “What will happen to your country, though? Without their queen-”

“I’ve had to pretend to die so many times that only God truly knows,” she whispered. “If I were to pretend it again, just one last time, then maybe I can leave royalty behind me. Though, if you were to ask, no, I will not fraternize with you any further.”

“Understandable,” he said, without hesitation. The both of them already had enough on their plates, and, well, they didn’t need more. Children, problems, heartbreak, attempted murder — they’d had their fare share in the past few centuries. More would probably make him black out and awaken a century later, with how his luck was.

“I’m glad we agree.”

By then, the blue and red on his face had receded back into his hairline — it’s natural position. He sipped at his tea, the two of them sitting in silence as they drank. His house hadn’t seen much sound since the children had been sent away, and had only gotten quieter since he disowned Ire. Not that he was sad about it; his youngest brother had always been a pest and eventually he’d begun demanding that he has his own land, owned by himself, for himself, and so he granted that wish.

Ever since then, Scott and Wales hadn’t spoken very much to him, apart from the occasional letter from the elder brother and the messenger who carried his words to the other. North hadn’t even bothered with responding to his correspondence. Ireland did, occasionally. Just simple things, like how the land was fertile and the crops grew well, how the horses and sheep were faring, how many puppies were in the newest liter. He only ever had seen write in something more than what he guessed was the monotone for that man, and that was when he and his people had found the cliffs, oh so excited he was in his words. He’d even sketched a portion of it with some charcoal.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the greatest family member around.

“When will you be leaving?” Britain asked. He didn’t want her to leave so soon, but he had the feeling that it wouldn’t be for long.

“After you see what the king says. You’re going to inform him of your secret?” France asked, raising an eyebrow. “How will that work —  _ Il dira probablement à tout le monde _ .”

“He already knows.”


End file.
